


correspondence chess

by SHCombatalade



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Customer Service & Tech Support, Gen, Government Agencies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8388910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHCombatalade/pseuds/SHCombatalade
Summary: Fill of a prompt on tumblr "Star Trek AU where Spock works in some sort of call center and Jim is the guy calling every day with completely ridiculous problems just because he wants to talk to him" that sort of spiraled out of control





	

The first time isn’t intentional.

It’s the day before graduation, and he’s already signed his future away to a really great job (that he actually _can_ talk about, but it’s so much more fun to tell people he can’t, not without killing them, because what other joy can he derive from working for one of the government’s many acronyms?) - and besides, he doesn’t go into the store with the intention to cause trouble. Really. He goes because their lithium-ion battery cases are the easiest to break open, and he thinks Bones might actually follow through on many of the various threats against his life if he borrows his tools again.

The point is, he goes to the Apple store at the Galleria for batteries, and instead he meets probably the most beautiful human being he’s ever encountered.

“Hey,” he grins, and leans against the closest table. The blue of the t-shirt is genuinely not his color, and he thought blue looked good on literally everyone, but he’s got the sort of bone structure that can cut through even the most unflattering of work uniforms.

He smiles at Jim with perfectly white teeth and a perfectly empty expression. “Good afternoon, I’m Spock. What can I help you with today?”

Jim has been just blessed enough to have never worked a retail job in his life, but he’s familiar enough with the personality it breeds - Spock’s words say _I’m listening_ but his voice and eyes say _I’m anywhere but here_ , but apparently the contradiction is just enough of a challenge for Jim. “Yeah, can I get a Sazerac?”

The hollow smile falls into a stern expression, which weirdly works with the stern eyebrows and the sterner haircut. “Excuse me?”

Somehow even the thought of creating a lighter, lithium-based engine for his old motorcycle seems less interesting than this. Maybe he really is finally growing up. “You’re right, too pretentious. How about a whiskey sour?”

His (perfect) face smooths devoid of any emotion entirely, real or fake. “Sir, I think there’s been some form of misunderstanding.”

 _Misunderstanding_ \- it’s the most diplomatic way of telling the customer that he is absolutely wrong. “Well,” and when Spock doesn’t follow the motion of his glance to the hanging sign he punctuates it with a gesture from his hand, “the sign says this is a bar.” It’s eleven in the morning on a Friday, but there’s a sizable crowd in the store; some of them are close enough to listen in, and react with brief smiles. Spock does not. “And I _am_ a genius.”

The woman in the matching uniform standing nearest to Spock hides a snort of laughter into her iPad. “Do you have a technical issue?” The only technical issue Jim has is that in twenty-four hours he probably won’t be able to get away with even a fraction of the shit he does normally, especially on his computer, but in regards to _actual_  technical issues… no. Not really. Not since he was eight years old. He wasn’t lying when he said that he was a genius.

“No.”

There’s a hint of a smile in the arch of Spock’s eyebrow, in the sharp edges of his glare. “Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

He doesn’t get any lithium-ion batteries, but he does get very politely removed from the facility by the largest security guard on the East Coast.

* * *

The next time, and every time after, is completely premeditated.

“Apple CambridgeSide,” the perky, not-dead-inside voice that is very clearly not Spock’s answers the phone, “how may I direct your call?”

It’s four months after graduation (four months and one day since their first disastrous meeting), and the most important part of those four months has been learning that actually, yes, he can get away with at least ninety percent of the shit he does normally. The second most important part has been the weekly (okay, sometimes two times a week. Three times, once) calls to the Apple store. Specifically, to Spock. “Yeah, can you connect me to the Genius Bar?”

The third most important part is that they’ve finally changed their hold music.

“Genius Bar.”

Technically it’s his lunch hour, so Jim feels zero shame in loosening his tie; most days he doesn’t even wear one to work, but it’s Pike’s birthday and he figured this was better than a half-assed card. “Hey Nyota,” he greets the familiar voice, and smiles when she sounds less robotically perky the second time around.

“Jim.” In his admittedly more than once weekly calls to the store, he’s spoken to Nyota at least half of the time - she doesn’t buy any of his bullshit, but she at least thinks he’s even a little bit charming. “Laptop problems again?”

He doesn’t even own a laptop - he’s got a desktop at work and two more at home, and then a tablet he uses for everything else - and it’s obvious that she’s guessed as much. “Yeah,” he agrees, “yeah it’s just not working. The thing is doing the thing.”She snorts, like she had the first day they met and like she has ever day since, and he glances up just long enough to make sure his office door is firmly shut. “There’s a sound. Is Spock in?”

The fourth most important part is the way the he can _hear_ her smiling. “You know, he’s actually not here today,” and he thinks, maybe, he has enough brain function to devote even a tiny scrap toward contemplating how wrecked that makes him feel - Spock has _always_  been in. “But,” and the terrible feeling in his gut vanishes in a flash of hope, “he can always be reached by email.”

Jim thinks that maybe Nyota gets away with a lot of shit, too.

* * *

> **James T. Kirk** _< jkirk@nsa.gov>  
>  _to **Spock Grayson** _< spock@apple.com>_  
>  **Subject** : Tech Support
> 
> Oh darn, my computer _again_. You should give me your phone number just in case this ever happens again on your day off.

 

> **Spock Grayson** _< spock@apple.com>_  
>  to **James T. Kirk** _< jkirk@nsa.gov>_  
>  **RE** : Tech Support
> 
> Three minutes on Google leads me to believe that, between your multiple graduate degrees from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and your current employment with the NSA, you probably know more about your technology and its perceived problems than I do.
> 
> Do you even own an Apple computer?
> 
> _Sent from my Android_

 

> **James T. Kirk** _< jkirk@nsa.gov>_  
>  to **Spock Grayson** _< spock@apple.com>_  
>  **RE: RE** : Tech Support 
> 
> If I say no, will you try to sell me one? I’m very stubborn, it might take a few hours.

 

> **Spock Grayson** _< spock@apple.com>_  
>  to **James T. Kirk** _< jkirk@nsa.gov>_  
>  **RE: RE: RE** : Tech Support 
> 
> Since you don’t seem to own an Apple computer, I’m afraid that you’ll need to contact the technical support of the company that manufactured the malfunctioning device.
> 
> _Sent from my Android_

 

> **Jim Kirk** _< jtkirk@mit.edu>_  
>  to **Spock Grayson** _< spock@apple.com>_  
>  **RE: RE: RE: RE** : Tech Support 
> 
> “Sent from my Android” 
> 
> Hypocrite.
> 
> _Sent from my iPhone_

* * *

Another four months go by and he doesn’t get Spock’s number, but he also doesn’t get politely or not-so informed to stop calling. He doesn’t even get his email blocked. And really, for all the times it seems like Spock would rather be anywhere, even at work, than talk to him, he’s never once told Jim to stop. Honestly, the limbo of _maybe_  is more nerve-wracking than any definitive yes or no could ever hope to be.

He also stops calling the store… as much. He still calls, mostly out of boredom that he couches in references to tradition, but only a few times a month now that he’s acquired the expediency of email.

One morning in early January ( _early_ morning), he wakes up to the unpleasant surprise of his phone shrieking an event reminder - unpleasant, because it’s four in the morning, and surprise, because he’s got nothing scheduled. Or, rather, he _didn’t_  have anything. When he finally finds his phone to urge it back into silence, there’s a notification informing him that he’s going to be at Dram&Grain at eight that night.

He calls as soon as they’re open, and is immediately transferred to the correct department - apparently they’ve got his number, work and home, memorized.  “Apple CambridgeSide,” the dry, one-part-smile-eight-parts-smirk voice that says Spock knows exactly who’s on the line answers the phone.

“Did you hack my phone to ask me out?”

Logically, he knows that he should feel any number of negative emotions at having both his privacy and his autonomy so carelessly invaded (logically, he also knows that there’s a good portion of the population that feels all of those same negative emotions every time he shows up at the office), but mostly he’s just annoyed that he didn’t think of it first. Also, and he’s not on the clock yet so he doesn’t feel the slightest hint of shame in admitting this at his workplace, he’s sort of uncomfortably turned on by the idea.

“Your call may be monitored for quality assurance and training purposes,” Spock informs him by way of an answer.

Jim has been playing chess for most of his life; long enough to know when he’s been beaten. “Yeah, pretty sure I’m the one supposed to be monitoring it. Did you really hack my phone to ask me out for drinks?”

He hopes that the fumble of movement he can hear over the call is Spock moving away from the crowded storefront and not doing something like putting him on speakerphone. “No.” Jim has been playing chess for most of his life; he’s a patient man. “In the past eight months, you’ve called Apple Tech Support eighty-three times about malfunctioning equipment. I took it upon myself to remote access your phone to ensure everything was working properly.”

“Uh-huh. So, Dram&Grain?”

“In the past eight months, you’ve called me at work eighty-three times and emailed me at home six hundred and thirteen times. I took it upon myself to invite you out so that we can finally move on with our lives.”

Maybe Spock’s the one dropping his king in this situation. He’s apparently the one who’s grown tired of waiting. “I can’t believe you won’t give me your number but you’ll drive eight hours to meet me at a bar.”

“I’m flying, not driving. I have family business in Baltimore over the weekend - this is simply killing two birds with at least one date.” _At least_. Spock is way smarter than he is and way more of a bitch than he is and apparently also way more proactive than he is, and Jim is pretty sure that he’s entirely fucked at this point. “See you at eight.”

* * *

He realizes, at three minutes to eight, that this is only the second time they’ve occupied the same physical location. He realizes this when he goes to the bar for drinks and instead is punched in the gut with the sudden visual reminder that Spock is, in addition to all of other things, way prettier than Jim is. Like, completely inhumanly beautiful.

Spock leans against the bar, a long line of angles and contrast, and he wants to _touch_ ; it takes Jim just a second too long to remember that he’s not only allowed to do so now, but apparently encouraged. The bartender notices him - _who couldn’t? -_ and appears before them with a too-bright smile they know all too well. “Lavender Bees Knees for me, and he’ll have a Sazerac.”

He’s distracted by the blue of Spock’s sweater and how it suits him perfectly, dark like the sea or the sky or any other metaphor for something that a man can willingly get lost in. “What?”

The expression on his face is contemplative, but there’s a smirk in the way he addresses the bartender, and not Jim. “You’re right,” he echoes, and that’s the exact moment in time where Jim knows for sure that he is totally fucked, “too pretentious. Make it a whiskey sour.”


End file.
